


Far Off Destinations

by stardropdream



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: CLAMPkink, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Implied Relationships, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is what it feels like, Sakura-chan,” he says, quietly, “But it is much, much better—with the person you love.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Off Destinations

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the CLAMP kink meme and then reposted to LJ September 10, 2010. 
> 
> The prompt was for Fay/Sakura.

  
He keeps her up on the bed, holding her legs up, dead-weight, as he slips into her. She closes her eyes, keeping her head bowed, her body shaking just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, though he thinks he should, as he pushes into her up to the hilt, seated inside the princess. She inhales sharply, a breathless, heartbroken gasp. He takes her hand, and kisses her knuckles, blue eye lidded and pained.  
  
“Sakura-chan…” he starts.  
  
She shakes her head, lifting her hands away from his mouth and instead resting on his shoulders, arching slightly as she adjusts to having him inside her.   
  
“Fay-san,” she whispers, “It’s alright.”   
  
“It…” begins, wanting to deny—cry out _no, it isn’t alright. It’s never been alright. This is not alright_ , but she is determined and he cannot refuse her. Her body is weak, broken, shattered from heartbreak. And she still goes on, she still tries to go on. She does not know how, and he does not know how to help her (tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t want to help her, but it’s too late, it’s always been too late—).   
  
“Please,” she says, does not beg, “Please. How do I go on?”  
  
She is naked but for her thigh-high boots. He was too worried of hurting her leg to take them off, but he could easily shed her of her dress and her underwear, leaving her naked on the bed. He remains clothed, unable to let himself be all the more vulnerable, bare to her—even if she would not and does not judge him. If it wasn’t Sakura on the bed like this, sweet, gentle princess that she is, the sight of her naked in only boots would have been erotic. But her eyes are too sad, her body too hesitant as he stays inside her, unmoving, and he wonders how it is he can still be hard.   
  
“My sweet princess,” he says, almost sobs, and closes his eye, bowing his head. His hair spills in front of his face and he’s thankful, for now he does not have to look at her, look at the way her face crumbles and yet begs for him to love her, to care for her.   
  
“A-ah,” she cries out as he shifts his hips, thrusting up into her for the first time.   
  
He covers her mouth, resting his forehead against hers as he thrusts into her a second time. Covers her mouth, so the others won’t hear her, so the others won’t learn of how he is corrupting her—sweet, gentle Sakura. How he has already corrupted her, dragged her down. How already her eyes have lost a bit of their glimmer, a bit of her that does not belong to him. He pushes in and out of her, trying to move slowly, being achingly gentle.   
  
“Please,” she says from behind his hand, shifts her hips up—as if she wants it harder. She does not, she cannot possibly. He does not want to hurt her, she should not want to be hurt. She is warm and tight, and it is sinful for him to want to keep thrusting, even as he does not want to look at who it is he is sleeping with, who it is he is destroying one thrust at a time.   
  
He hooks her legs over his shoulders as he leans over her. She’s on her back, on the bed, arms stretched over her head so that the small volume of her breasts shift and bounce with each thrust, even if they are not large. Her fingers curl and her back arches slightly when he thrusts just a bit too hard and she seizes up.  
  
 _I knew you wouldn’t want that,_ he thinks instead of says, because he does not want to see her cry. He slows his pace, pushing and pulling in and out of her with gentle care, excruciatingly slow—the friction is almost too much. He feels as if he is burning up. The coil of shame in his chest will not leave him be, even as her hands smooth over his black shirt, along the vee of the neck, stroking the exposed skin. Her fingers brush along his throat, along his jaw. She arches up so she can press closer, pull him in deeper. She rubs, unsure what it is that gives her pleasure but knowing that this angle is what makes her want to cry out every time.   
  
He cups her breasts, tries to stop them from moving with his movements. His thumbs flick at her nipples and she closes her eyes, parting her mouth. She pants, moans out his name just slightly and looks surprised by the exhalation. Her eyelashes flicker, bright green eyes misting over. He cannot stand to look at her and he has to turn his gaze away. She gives him a watery smile, her bottom lip jutting out in a way that, on anyone else, would have been kissable.   
  
“Please, Fay-san,” she says, turning his face back towards her. She blinks her eyes to banish the tears. “Please… just for tonight… don’t run away.”  
  
He freezes, her legs balanced on his shoulders, his hands on her breasts. Inside of her. He opens his mouth, and finds he does not know what to say. He feels utterly pinned as she strokes his face, brushes the hair from his face.   
  
“Is this what people do, when they are in love?” she asks, stroking his face—and he knows her thoughts are millions of worlds away, to a boy who left her behind, a boy who does not remember her.   
  
“… Yes, Sakura-chan,” he manages to say.   
  
“So, please,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “I can’t be alone. Pretend that you love me, like that.”  
  
He nods, though she cannot say it. He bends his head, kissing her forehead and dropping his hands away from her breasts. He kisses at her collarbone, along the column of her neck. He angles his hips, pressing against her in a way that makes her cry out slightly, and he can hear her choked voice against his lips as he kisses at her throat. She calls his name, quietly. He forgets to cover her mouth, forgets to be ashamed of shattering her further instead of healing her.   
  
He finds that, at least, his body is enjoying it. He can feel himself approaching orgasm, can feel it even though the rest of him hates that he can take pleasure in sleeping with his princess—she is still so young, still so broken, and her heart is screaming for someone else.   
  
He thrusts up into her, pumping, feeling his body begin to quake from the pleasure. He tightens his grip on her, lifts his head away from her to stop himself from kissing her on the mouth, to swallow all her shallow cries.   
  
With one final thrust, he releases inside her. His body tenses up and he cries, but she continues to pant and rub her hips against him, trying to reach that moment of pleasure for herself. He spasms, pushing into her, filling her with his seed. She tilts her head back, crying out quietly, filling with warmth that does not reach her heart. Her eyes well up.   
  
He comes back down, feels himself soften inside her. Feels his seed inside her. He shifts, pushing her back down onto the bed, unhooking her legs from his shoulders. He rests her on the bed, lying her out. She is panting, her body heaving, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. Green eyes, spilling over with tears, watch him.   
  
He has to look away. He retreats to the bathroom, the cold night air in Infinity chilling him to the bones. He collects a towel, wiping himself before tucking himself back into his pants and pulling up the zip. He stays in there a moment, stewing in his shame. He cannot face himself in the mirror, and refuses to look.   
  
When he comes back out, Sakura is still where he’d left her, without a word. She lies supine on the bed, her hands folded on her chest. She pants, her breasts heaving. One leg is slightly bent, and her face is turned to the side as she cries, silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He sees himself dripping out of her and is filled again with shame.   
  
He walks over to her, sitting down beside her. He tries to think of something to say, and instead stays silent. He strokes her hair, brushing it away from her face. His fingers brush against her cheeks, guilty.  
  
She closes her eyes. “Thank you.”  
  
Fay doesn’t know what to say. Thankfulness had not what he’d been expecting. He’d expected anger, dismissal, regret.   
  
“I’m… someday, I’ll be able to bring his heart back,” she whispers.   
  
She is crying for a boy who does not remember her. A boy that she had not remembered, and still loved.  
  
He strokes her hair, and then shifts away, taking the towel to wipe her clean so she can get dressed again. He strokes her once and she stiffens up. He realizes in his haste to get away from her, that he had not helped her reach her orgasm. Again, shame fills him—for leaving her neglected, and for considering continuing, to finish what had been started.  
  
“Sakura-chan,” he whispers.   
  
She doesn’t look up, still crying.   
  
He strokes her with the towel and watches her shiver from pleasure, even as the tears spill down her cheeks. He frowns, feels his heart crush. He presses two fingers into her, feeling his sperm press around his fingers as his fingers are swallowed around her tight heat. His breath stills, and she freezes, arching slightly. She lifts her gaze to watch him, only for her eyes to slam shut as she cries out in pleasure—his thumb presses against her clit, swirling and stroking her as she squirms, her thighs shaking, her body quivering.  
  
“A-ah… Ah! Fa—Fay-san!” she moans, body writhing.   
  
He continues to stroke her, watches her body screw up more and more, approaching her orgasm. She does not know what to do with the touch, with the pleasure. She squirms. His seed spills from her and onto his hand, and he continues to press her clit, swirling it with his thumb, stroking it softly. She bites her lip, cries out quietly as finally she reaches release, tensing up and rubbing against his hand, arching up to no one.   
  
She is panting, and moans out his name as her body squeezes around his fingers, convulsing, drawing him in again. He stays still, letting her ride it out until she falls, sated, to the bed again. She pants, breathes deeply, but does not move. He pulls his hand away from out of her, strokes her again with the towel and wipes his hand. He stands to dispose of the towel, to try and forget his shame. He knows, instead, he will stew in it.   
  
When he returns, she is still there on the bed. She lies on the bed now, curled slightly into herself, still naked. He still drips out of her, dirtying the sheets. She does not seem to mind, or even notice. He walks over to her, slowly, shamefully, guilt. Guilt. So much guilt.   
  
He takes her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. She closes her eyes, letting a small smile touch her lips.   
  
He runs his hand over her back, smooth and curved, following the curve of her spine. He keeps his touch soft, and she sighs, contently, as he leans in and kisses the back of her neck, trying to comfort her, trying to comfort himself.   
  
“This is what it feels like, Sakura-chan,” he says, quietly, “But it is much, much better—with the person you love.”  
  
Sakura nods, and squeezes his hand. He kisses at her spine, following the line downwards and then back up again. Her body is soft, pliant. She is close to falling asleep.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, once he’s sure she is asleep. Her breathing is deep. He fights back tears and kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry, Sakura-chan.”


End file.
